Pentedattilo, Southern Italy

Pentedattilo means “five fingers,” but tonight it looks like a fist—sandstone knuckles pressed against the sky.

I stand on a hill facing the cliff, the Ionian Sea behind me. Wasps circle the prickly pears, drawn to fruit split open by the heat, their scent both sweet and stale. Dust clings to my skin.

The sun drops behind the hills, shadows swallowing the abandoned village. The bell tower points toward the scar where the castle once stood. The cliffs have kept their secrets for centuries, but the wind still carries whispers of what happened here.

Easter night, 1686. Bernardino Abenavoli, Baron of Montebello—denied Antonia Alberti’s hand—led his men up the slopes. By dawn, the Alberti fortress was in ruins. Doors gaped open, slick with blood. Lorenzo, Marquis of Pentedattilo, and most of his family lay dead. Only Antonia survived, carried into exile with the echoes of her family’s voices.

Calabria trembled. The cliff above became known as the Devil’s Hand.

Now I stand here as darkness gathers. The rock’s five fingers curl into shadow, and somewhere beyond the darkening sea, the world sharpens its knives again.